Diving In
by merduff
Summary: House and Wilson kill some time at the beach before the first post.


Neil Diamond might sing about a hot August night, but as far as House was concerned, the day was sweltering without any hope of salvation. The mercury was hovering at 90 degrees and it wasn't even noon yet. House wasn't sure what had possessed him to leave the air conditioned hotel room, much less splay his body out to be roasted under the sun, but he knew he'd had enough.

"Get me a drink. I'm dying of thirst." House stared expectantly down at the lump of seared meat lying on the towel beside his chair. If he could get Wilson moving, they might get off this godforsaken stretch of sand and over to the Shore's Greatest Stretch instead.

"Get it yourself," the lump muttered without moving. House wondered if he should find a spatula and flip him over so he burned evenly. Wilson was well-seasoned with sea salt from an earlier swim; judging by the way the two teenage girls on the beach blanket over were salivating, he looked good enough to eat.

"Hello. Cripple on sand. Not a great combination."

"You got down here all right." Wilson turned over, saving House from having to improvise a meat fork from driftwood. He grimaced at the bright sun in his eyes. "There's water in the cooler," he said, gesturing vaguely beside House.

House knew exactly what was in the cooler, having pillaged it while Wilson dozed and simmered. "Drank it already."

"Then you're obviously not dying of thirst," Wilson retorted, "since we've been down here less than two hours and you've consumed four bottles of water. Two of which were mine. If anybody should be dehydrated, it's me."

"Water doesn't count," House protested. "There's nothing in it except hydrogen and oxygen. I need something more substantial. Something with alcohol, fruit juices, and a carcinogenic cherry."

"We're on the Jersey Shore, not the Mayan Riviera," Wilson pointed out. He covered his eyes with his forearm and settled back into the sand. He looked disgustingly relaxed, a situation House was going to have to change immediately.

"That explains the lack of cabana boys. You'll have to do." Wilson had demanded they go to the beach, insisting he wasn't going to spend his entire weekend at the racetrack, especially since the stakes race wasn't until evening. That had sounded like heresy to House, but it was Wilson's car that had brought them down the shore, and Wilson's credit card that paid for meals, so House was willing to watch beach bunnies for a morning in order to keep Wilson's wallet close to him. Still, if House was going to sacrifice valuable paddock time, he should at least be properly compensated. He poked the softening spread of Wilson's stomach. "_Dos margaritas, muchacho. Mi amigo pagará._"

"You have another friend?" Wilson mused, swatting House's hand away. "If you wanted free alcohol, you should have dragged me to Atlantic City."

Apparently, House had erased _El Fuego del Amor_ too late. "C'mon, Jimmy. I'm hot," he whined. If he were a dog, all he'd have to do is pant a little and Wilson would trip all over himself getting him a drink. It couldn't hurt to try.

Wilson cracked open one eye. "You look and sound ridiculous," he said, but this time he sat up. "If you're so hot, why don't you go in the water?"

"What part of cripple and sand do you not understand?"

"The part where you made me comb the beach for a piece of wood that you could use as a cane, specifically so you could go swimming. 'That one's too small. That one's too thick.' You sounded like a pornographic fairy tale."

"What can I say? I like my wood just right." House snickered, pleased when Wilson laughed along with him. He reached for the piece of driftwood that Wilson had brought back on the third try and levered himself upright. It was the perfect height and weight, not that he would ever admit that to Wilson. "Are you coming, or are you going to lie there like a slug?" He headed for the shore, knowing Wilson would follow, if only to make sure he didn't drown.

The first few steps were through sun-warmed shallow water, but as House pushed further into the surf, using the makeshift cane as leverage against the water resistance, the ocean cooled significantly. A wave splashed perilously close to his groin and he considered turning back, but Wilson was already wading past him. A few feet farther, and they were waist deep. It was easier to move, buoyancy relieving some of the pressure on the ruined muscles of his right thigh, so House dropped the driftwood, letting it float away.

"How were you planning on getting back to your towel?" Wilson asked, though he didn't try to retrieve the driftwood.

"I'll cross those twenty feet of sand when I get to them," House replied and lowered his arms into the water, trying to adjust to the temperature. He scooped a handful of water and let it trickle over his shoulders. He could almost hear his skin sizzle.

Wilson just laughed and dove in. For a man who never crossed the street against the light and measured every word he said, Wilson was downright reckless when it came to submerging himself in women and water. He surfaced a dozen feet away and shook the water off his face. "The longer you think about it, the harder it is to get in," he said.

That explained the marriages. House was going to have to adjust Wilson's philosophy before the next willing victim threw herself at his feet. "I prefer to ease my way in to avoid any rude shocks," he said. But he had plunged blindly into a relationship with Stacy and it had been both the best and worst thing he'd ever done. He ducked away when Wilson kicked a spray of water at him. "Asshole."

"Wimp." Wilson ducked underwater again and darted away like an oversized minnow.

"Are you just going to leave me here?" House demanded, when Wilson came up for air. He had to raise his voice, and Wilson's groupies, who had followed them into the water, giggled. House turned to glare at them. "The only way he's going to look at you is if you develop melanoma," he snapped. "Good news, though. From the burns on your shoulders, it's just a matter of time." He didn't even need a makeshift cane to send the teeny boppers fleeing to the shade.

"That was just wrong," Wilson said, side-stroking a few feet back. "You know UV-related skin cancer has a 20- to 30-year latency period. I'll be retired by the time they need an oncologist." He kicked more water at House. "Stop standing there like some creepy old man and get in the water. An easy swim will be good for your leg."

That was anything but an incentive. "It's too cold," he complained.

"First you're too hot, and now you're too cold," Wilson said, moving his hands in lazy circles to keep himself afloat. "You sound just like Peter -- when he was six. He'd refuse to go in past his waist, so Danny and I would pee in the ocean and tell him we'd found a warm current."

"That's disgusting," House said admiringly. "I had no idea you were so cruel to your baby brother."

"Please," Wilson scoffed. "We grew up in New Jersey. There are worse things in the water than a little pee."

House imagined Wilson at eleven, long-legged and thin-chested, watching over his brothers with serious, dark eyes that sparkled with sudden mischief. "All the more reason not to stick my head under water." He splashed his shoulders to cool off and decided he'd had enough of the beach life. But Wilson was swimming away again. "Where are you going now?"

"I'm swimming out to the buoy and back," he replied, not breaking stroke. "Hold your horses."

"I can't hold my horses," House protested. "First post is in half an hour."

Wilson gave one last slightly martyred kick, and then dove and somersaulted like an otter with alopecia, surfacing to face House. "So go to the track," he said. "I'm not stopping you."

He wasn't taking him either, which was more to the point. If House had wanted to jostle through crowds on his own, he would have stolen Wilson's car keys and been at Monmouth Park by the time the gates opened. Instead, he'd subjected himself to sand, sun, and stultifying boredom just to cater to Wilson's whim. "Who's going to pay my admission?"

"It's four dollars," Wilson pointed out, struggling to express his exasperation while treading water. He bobbed under and resurfaced, spitting out waste water. "If you hurry, you can steal it from the tip I left the maid this morning."

"It's Haskell Day," House replied. "Reserved clubhouse seats are at least fifteen dollars. Even you don't tip that much." Actually, Wilson did, but House had already earmarked that money for crab cakes. He'd also reserved seats before they'd left Princeton, but Wilson didn't need to know that. "And how am I supposed to get there? You drove, remember?" Only because Wilson's car had air conditioning, but that was another detail better left unmentioned.

Wilson sighed. "Five minutes," he said. "Another fifteen minutes to get changed and checked out, and I'll have you at the gate in time to bet on the first race. Unless, of course, you want to argue about it. Because I can tread water all day."

House hated it when Wilson was reasonable. It took all the fun out of arguing with him. "No blow drying," he negotiated. If he was going to wait, Wilson was going to suffer with windblown hair.

"No blow drying," Wilson agreed. "Now either dive in or make your way back to shore." He didn't wait for House to answer, just put his head down and started a slow, easy crawl out to sea.

The problem with Wilson was that he saw things in absolutes, as if diving in or getting out were House's only two options. He took a step forward and the water washed over his waist. Another few steps and he was chest high. He took a deep breath and slowly submerged his shoulders. It was cold, but nowhere near the shock he had anticipated.

House leaned back and floated lazily over the rocking waves. He had no intention of following Wilson out into deep water, but he wouldn't be left behind either.


End file.
